Government Warning: (1) According to the author, women should drink lots of alcoholic beverages whenever he is in the vicinity. Also, women who are pregnant aren’t supposed to drink alcohol because it could fuck up the offspring. Phil assumes his mother drank heavily during his gestation, hence she is partially responsible for his irreverent behavior. (2) Over-consumption of alcohol impairs just about everything, which is convenient at times. Think of all the ugly people you had sex with. Ouch. See? Now, you have an excuse. Oh, and don’t drive a fucking bulldozer if you’re plastered, genius, because you’ll probably squash something, and fuck up your day.

Contains Vulgarities

Ingredients: 30,000 or so words—many of them naughty or nice, depending on your perspective. I use the work “fuck” 162 times. Make that 163. I like that word. Don’t you? Go ahead, and say it now. LOUDER. I’m in love.

Made in my office (coated in car hair, and currently contains four empty coffee mugs, and a nice box of Jujubes) in Carlsbad, California. If you’re in the area, don’t hesitate to get a hotel room. I look like Howard Johnson’s to you? No, I don’t offer tours. Bang on my door before seven, and you’ll have hell to pay, unless you’re carrying coffee, Baileys, and a lightly-toasted, heavily-buttered Asiago bagel.

I don’t know if this just comes with age or what, but I’m less patient with my relationships, when I should probably be more patient. The first sign of any drama, no matter how sexually starved I happen to be, and I lose her number. Perhaps, this makes me unpopular with the ladies. Maybe, I’m getting a reputation.

Meh.

What I am hoping is that by reading my take on the whole mating game, you’ll have a better appreciation for whatever predicament you’re in, be that anything between marital bliss and been lovin’ your fist.

Sure, I’m bitter sometimes. Aren’t you? How many times do you let karma kick you before you become jaded like me, and begin to expect it? So, you’re pissed. He dumps you for a skank-hole. Go ahead and be hurt–that’s natural. It’s an ego slap. As you get older, you’ll begin to take these more in-stride. Sure, you’ll complain about it to a friend, relative, or co-worker, but you’ll get over it.

Look at this book as my way of getting over it. A collection of irreverent, sarcastic, vulgar, crude, whatever-you-call-it essays containing my fucked-up perception of life, which might actually lower my blood pressure by writing, and generate a giggle or two for the reader.

Before we go any further, let me warn you that I love to cuss. Fucking love it. You’re going to read plenty of bad words, so reading aloud is strongly discouraged, unless you’re in church.

Also, since I have taken certain liberties with our language, and I am a bit whiny and insensitive, I’ve decided to enhance this tome with–drum roll, please–recipes!

Don’t you cringe while waiting for feedback? Whether you’re making a stew or writing a book, somebody is waiting to give you an opinion. The thing I’ve learned about opinions (aside form the asshole analogy) is that there’s no arguing an opinion. If she likes it, she likes it. If she hates it, I can’t make it better. Perhaps a little salt would help.

As I finish book number 14, and begin the tedious process of gathering, re-reading, and tidying up my words, I ask the obvious question:

“So, what do you think?”

“You seem angry.”

“What? Now or in print?”

“In print. I mean, it’s funny and all, but you’re definitely jaded. Some woman tore your heart into a million little pieces.”

“Nuh uh. I’m just trying to translate my thoughts into an escape for readers who may or may not share similar experiences.”

“OK.”

“Look, if I write all mushy, love-y nonsense, readers are going to gag. I’m simply the nice guy who has had a string of bad luck in his relationships.”

“Not so, nice guy. You’re the one who brags about avoiding superstition. If you’re having relationship disasters, you should seek the common denominator.”

“Dogs?”

“No, you.”

“Are you telling me I’m the only one who finds this mating partner thing as hard to master as chess?”

“I’m not saying you’re alone. Most people either don’t admit it or have enough sense to go see a therapist.”

“I wouldn’t pay a penny to a therapist. That’s a fucking racket, almost as bad as organized religion. Maybe my therapy is writing this shit out. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, someone in a similar situation will find comfort in the shared predicaments documented within this book, or someone in the most wonderful of relationships (fucking gag) will find humor in my misery, and pride in his or her blissful marriage.”

“See? You’re jaded. Who would want to date you anyway?”

“None taken.”

“Seriously. You write about everything from premature ejaculation to pussy farts.”

All right, all right, all right. Perhaps that test contained what some would call “leading questions.”

“Is it not true, Mr. Torcivia, that on the night of October 19th, you hired male strippers to perform at your venue?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it’s true?”

“Yes, your statement is true.”

“So, you admit to hiring male strippers.”

“I do not.”

“But, you said yes to my initial question.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’m confused.”

“Yes, you are.”

The previous exchange was an example of leading questions that was more real-world and less irreverent.

So, to redeem myself from the previous test, allow me to provide five scenarios with the same rating system. Here, the scoring will be interpreted differently.

Scenario #1:

Nice Guy Andrew pulls in front of your condo, gently taps on your front door at precisely five minutes past his scheduled arrival, smiles, and presents you with a fresh bouquet of tulips. He hands a treat to your pooch, offers his arm, and guides you to his car. He opens the door, and assists you into the passenger seat. After he closes your door, a teenager skateboards past, and spits in his face. Andrew gets in the car, asks you for a tissue, wipes his face, and says, “Kids these days. Oh, what a kidder.”

Scenario #2:

While making love, Nice Guy Brian says, “You’re so amazingly beautiful, and I’m the luckiest man in the world to have this honor. Keep your lovely eyes open as I sink emotionally and physically deeper into you.”

While enjoying couples’ night out, your ex-husband makes an impromptu appearance. He’s intoxicated. He approaches you and your date, Nice Guy Daniel. The ex introduces himself, shakes Daniel’s hand, and says, “I apologize for stretching her vagina out, pal.” Daniel smiles, and responds, “Thanks for the warning, friend. Haven’t been there yet, but after I down three more of these Cosmos, she might get lucky.”

Scenario #5:

You’re at a local pub with Nice Guy Evan. The server has been flirting with him the entire night. You suspect something is up. You take a potty break, and discuss the situation with someone in an adjacent stall. When you return, you notice the skanky slut-bag server handing him a card. Before you have a chance to mention it, Evan shows you her card, and says, “Baby, isn’t this woman a hoot? She just gave me the bartender, Jonathan’s, phone number. The silly goose said she thought I was gay because of my nicely coiffed hair and scarf. Gosh, I haven’t had a homosexual relationship since I don’t know when.”

Time to tally the scores again. This time, a score under ten means you were probably raised fatherless, and your hero is Rachel Maddow. Ten to twenty means you enjoy having a man take care of most household chores, and having your toes licked. A score of twenty to thirty means you need to rewrite your Match.com profile so you don’t attract so many pansies–remove the parts about long walks on the beach, and salsa lessons. A score over forty (Is it just me, or are you always tempted to write 40 as “fourty?” Fuck, I’m an imbecile.) means you meet most of your dates at MMA fights, and need your ass spanked and hair pulled … hard.

The average female claims to be disgusted by bad boys, and dreams of settling down with a nice guy. She either doesn’t know what she wants, or she’s fighting her urges. Of course, my impression offends certain women–the ones in denial. Look, it’s fine. Bad boys need love too, and they act that way precisely because hot women seem drawn to their antics. *sigh* Don’t assume that bad boys are stupid, and nice guys are smart. Untrue. Bad boys are street smart, as evidenced by them having a bevy of buxom beauties willing to take hot loads to the face. (Offended yet?) What we need is a test to determine what sort of woman you are–the kind, yet self-assured type who would never allow herself to be demeaned, or the slap-my-ass-and-pee-on-me-if-you-like type. (Got ya, didn’t I?)

Answer the following questions about each scenario with a number from one to four as follows:

This gets me wetter than a sea sponge during monsoon season.

There’s definitely some v-juice in me drawers (said with a British accent, please).

Bad Boy Alex is driving you in his BMW with the top down, even though it’s freezing out, to Carl’s Jr. for your date. Nice Guy Nick cuts him off in his Prius. At the next light, Alex puts his car in park, gets out (even though you asked him not to), stands in front of Nice Guy Nick’s Prius and head butts the hood. Then he returns to the car, bleeding slightly from his shaven head.

Scenario #2:

While having sex, Bad Boy Brock says, “You like that, don’t you? You’re a nasty little fuck pig. You don’t even deserve my massive meat. Beg for it like a baby bird.”

Scenario #3:

You’re watching the move, The Descendants with George Clooney. It’s the scene where George says his final goodbye to his dying wife. As you dab your eyes, Bad Boy Chris says, “Jesus Christ, it’s a fucking movie. He should have suffocated her long ago.” Then he farts, and tells you make him a sandwich.

Scenario #4:

At your company Christmas Party, your boss drags you out to the dance floor while your boyfriend, Bad Boy Dean orders shots from the hot babe bartender. (He slides her his number too … but, you don’t know that. The jury shall disregard.) He notices you two dancing. Bad Boy Dean drinks both shots, walks out to the dance floor, taps your boss on the shoulder, asks to cut in, and then slaps your boss on the back of his head, knocking his hairpiece crooked.

Scenario #5:

While at the local pub, you notice your boyfriend, Bad Boy Eric, laughing and flirting with some bimbo (your words, not mine). He returns, doesn’t mention her, and asks, “Where the fuck’s my beer?” When you ask him about the hosebag (the woman, not the beer), he responds, “That’s just a silly cunt I used to bang. She sucks in bed. Baby, I’d so glad I found you, and so is my happy cock.”

OK, tally your scores. Anything under ten, and you need therapy, a cry pillow, and a nice box of wet-naps. Ten to twenty, and there’s some hope for you–perhaps you’ll find love after all, three months at a time. Twenty to thirty and you should start a blog, and consider applying for that management position. Over thirty and you, my love, are destined for long-term happiness, not brought on by prescription drugs.

Nice Guy Syndrome is an affliction where a heterosexual male is frustrated because he finds himself caged within the friend zone of women he’d prefer to be dating. Often, he is a kind and sympathetic person who listens well, and lends a shoulder for women to cry on. He’s loved and admired, but not the type of fellow women sleep with.

If there is a hell, this is it, and I’m in the penthouse.

I was raised to be a nice guy. My relatives and teachers instilled in me the importance of:

Treating women gently

Protecting and providing for women

Listening to women without judging

Understanding what it is women want, even when they don’t say the words

Opening and holding doors for women

Handling certain tasks for women

Writing love notes to women

Complimenting women

I’m a fucking master of the above and, thereby, block my own access to the physical parts of women I long for.

So, what’s a nice guy to do? Should I shed my skin, get a Harley and tattoos, lose all concern for how I’m perceived, and begin banging lonely chicks by the dozen, just to please my pecker? I can’t do it. All I can do is vent, and hope someday, some woman will realize she deserves something better than bad boy bruises.

I’m in love with someone who realizes I’m in love with her, but she won’t let me love her because she likes me. Figure that out. Oh, I’m sure she thinks of other reasons why it would never work. I’m too old, too anti-marriage (except for gay marriage), and there are no bullets in my genetic gun. Yet, I love her so much that I would marry her (crazy, I know). Not only that, I am willing to have my balls re-sliced and my dangling ovaries reconnected, to plant my seed within her, just so I can admire the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met in the most beautiful state I’ve ever seen any woman. I cringe when I consider raising children, but my DNA would be blessed to share space with hers in a child who would melt my heart.

But, it’s not meant to be, because of me.

I don’t do the thing I know women want: chase and conquer. Nice guys don’t do that because we’re worried about rejection. Bad boys don’t care. Bad boys shrug off rejection, and move on to the next opportunity. Nice guys take it all in, and wonder what’s wrong with us. We get hair, teeth, and clothing upgrades. We diet. We hit the gym to the point of injury.

“She doesn’t want me. There must be something wrong with me.”

Bad boys are confident, and women love confidence. Women see a passive man as a weak man, unless he’s a friend–then, he’s a great friend. Bad boys know when they are turned down, it’s because the woman isn’t ready. Bad boys realize in many cases, no doesn’t mean never–it means not right now.

Nice guys are aware that no might mean maybe. But, nice guys also weigh factors such as time invested in stalking the prey, and the fact that we can’t change women. Nice guys think logically. We decide if we can’t change women, we can work on ourselves to become more marketable.

“No, you say? Be right back. How about now? No? Hmm. Give me a few weeks. OK, now? Maybe? Wow! That’s an opening. Let me buy you dinner. What? As friends? Jesus. Fine.”

Most of my friends are bad boys. We attract what we’re not. They bring me pearls of wisdom; I shut the oyster.

“Why are you still chasing her? Have you noticed there are probably hundreds of other opportunities within this city block alone? Get over her, already. In fact, once you branch out and stop staring at her like a caged puppy, she’ll see you with other women, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll realize you’re a catch, and give you a shot. You only live once, dude. Stop with the addiction. Quit her, cold turkey.”

“But, I love her.”

“You’ve never even kissed her.”

“Don’t have to. This is something I feel in my core. She’s like toffee–I don’t know why I love her, but I do.”

“And, you’ll feel the same for another, once you stop auto-cock-blocking.”

“If I let her go, I’ll always wonder.”

“Then, go tell her. All this shit you just spilled on me, tell her. Let her know exactly how you feel. But, if she says, ‘No, thank you,’ promise me you won’t crawl inside a bottle of scotch.”

“I can’t. I won’t scare her away. Better to have her in my life as a friend, than to lose her forever.”

You don’t want a bad boy, my dear; at least not in the real world. You can fantasize all you like about a scruffy, Harley driving, tattooed beast who does things you thought you’d never allow. But, you don’t want to meet him because eventually he’s going to shit all over you, emotionally.

You need a nice guy.

Forget that nonsense about how anything worthwhile is worth working hard for. If you wanted to buy a horse you could ride around the neighborhood, you would never opt for a wild bronco that would scream, thrash, and resist every attempt you made to civilize him. You’d go for the broken stud and avoid a broken neck.

That’s why I suggest you recalibrate your penis homing device. If you’re in a bar and you spot a tanned God in a vintage T-shirt and sandals who winks and slaps your ass as he walks by, run away. Run toward that kind fellow over there–the one who has been down the aisle a few times and learned how to behave.

You say you’re attracted to that coworker? Is he married? Ah, unhappily so. So he says. If his wife says so, you can believe it. Otherwise, you’re about invite calamity. Chances are he just wants a little strange to get him through the wife’s next nag session. If you’re looking for anything emotional attached to that penis, beware.

Again, seek the nice guy.

You may not be as attracted to the nice guy as you wish you were. He may be a bit of a pushover. He probably drinks too much, which helps maintain his niceness. I bet he knows how to seek and follow directions. There’s a huge benefit, right? You say, “lick,” and he says “how often?” Nice, huh?

Cancel all those silly online dating memberships. Save the money. Go to a bar and look for a quiet fellow who is content with his bourbon rocks and ESPN. Leave the bad boys for sad girls, and go have a nice guy!

A West Coast phenomenon, which I’m none to pleased with, is the tendency for people to bring their dogs to bars and restaurants. Rarely a night goes by without noticing a mutt sitting under a patron’s chair on a patio while I’m trying to enjoy wings and suds. If the restaurant doesn’t permit it, no problem; tie the pooch up just outside the front door and set a stainless bowl of water in front of him. I’m sure he doggy dreams about having numerous strangers pat him on the head, showering compliments like “nice doggy,” “oh, he’s so cute,” “I wonder if it is a he or a she,” and the ever-popular “aw.”

I don’t hate dogs, mind you. They have their place, which is nowhere near me while I eat. I don’t want my toes sniffed. I don’t want my knee licked. I don’t want to touch him and then my burger bun. I’m not feeding him scraps. I’m not delivering anything other than a sneer to him and his owner, because I don’t condone this activity.

So, last night, as I enjoyed a cold beer on a warm patio, a lovely specimen climbed aboard the patio with her beast of burden. Admittedly, the pooch was cute–cuter in his doggy bed in the family room than blowing doggie boogers around the patrons. Pets sense people who are annoyed by their presence. They approach these people and try to win them over. The pooch stared at me while his owner awaited my reaction.

“Your son’s going to need braces,” I remarked, noticing his under-bite with one tooth protruding over his upper lip.

“Fuck you. You’re an asshole. How dare you pick on poor, defenseless Curtis.”

“Whoa, easy,” I reeled while my buddies about peed themselves.

“He can’t help the way his teeth are. I rescued him. How could you pick on a defenseless animal?”

“Hey, I’m not picking on anyone. I was making an observation.”

“Dogs can’t wear fucking braces, you jackass.”

“Calm down. I wasn’t being literal.”

“What if this were my child. Would you say that?”

“Yeah, if he had a snaggle tooth, I probably would.”

“I should kick your ass,” she threatened, and she wasn’t kidding.

“Back me up, fellas,” I begged, hoping for support from my brothers. If we were women, I wouldn’t even have to ask. Men love nothing more than watching a bus cream a buddy, especially when it is driven by an attractive woman.

She became so enraged that she left the patio. (Job well done, if I must say so myself.) An hour later, she returned without her “son” and continued her assault. Because I’m a non-confrontational pussy who doesn’t want his ass kicked by a woman, I attempted to defuse the situation.

“I’m sorry. I was kidding. You know that, right?”

“No, you’re an asshole.”

“Granted. I apologize.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Again, if this were a group of women, they’d have my back. My buddy, however, saw this as a prime opportunity to make his move on her. I sat back and observed the inevitable approach: Angry girl was going to find a reason to be angry with him. It took less than five minutes for her to begin lecturing him because he made a comment about a man she was hanging around.

“Is your boy over there Abercrombie or Fitch?”

“Fuck you. He’s from England, asshole. Why do you have to pick on him?”

I sat back and chuckled. My pal handles situations like this differently–un-pussy-like–so he let her have it.

“No, fuck you. Fuck you in that great ass of yours. Fuck you and all the goofy-toothed men in your life.”

She stood there stunned. I awaited flying fists and beverages. Nothing.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” she responded, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Can I have a hug?”

As they hugged, I about lost my shit. I realized this woman had an strange, yet effective strategy to get a man to be a man around her, and I failed miserably.

Are you watching The Bachelor? What’s with all the crying, fainting, and cattiness? Is it the alcohol? Even Ben is starting to wear on me. The producers sure know how to whip these kittens into a frenzy.

I appreciate an emotional woman–to a point. I don’t want to be on a date sitting across from a plank with a Sharpie-drawn face. I want smiling, laughing, and occasional frowning (those hidden by Botox need not apply). There should be gesturing. Show off those pretty nails, Tiggerpoo. Lean in toward me, touch my hand, wink, giggle, and be animated. But, please, don’t overdo it.

One of the ladies this week got so worked up she fainted. That’s fucked up. If she passed out because she put a hurting on Don Julio, I’d applaud it. She fainted because she was worried about not being selected. Her fainting probably sealed that deal. Sure, there’s pressure involved when millions watch what amounts to a playground kickball team selection replayed every week. Nobody wants to go unselected. Still, should you be losing consciousness over it? I think not. Take a fucking chill pill, or get your medicinal marijuana card, you weak-kneed ninny.

My man, Ben, is transforming from a nice guy with horrible taste in women, into an arrogant lip-smacker with an artificially inflated ego and horrible taste in women. When a dozen prime vaginas are tossed your way, it’s natural to feel a bit godlike. Still, he’s tongue wrestling every woman in the house, without flossing or Purelling his face. (Maybe that goes on off-camera, but I doubt it.) I’d expect a few of these women to block Ole Plunger-Face after seeing him slobber on the competition.

Like in previous seasons, many of these leaky-eyed drama queens claim to be falling in love. How is that possible? Even if they were fed cocktails laced with oxytocin, Rufinol, and fireman sweat, there’s no way they’d be falling in love after some brief meetings spread over a few weeks. They may be falling in love with the idea of falling in love in front of a huge audience and the possibility of fame dollars. They’re not falling in love with Shaggy, the winemaker. I call shenanigans.

This drama feeds into the corruption of the nice guy. One smitten kitten curls up under the covers and weeps. The producers grab Ben and shove him into the room. Ben plays hero, dries her eyes, tells her it will all be OK, and then kicks her sobbing ass to the curb in front of millions. Nice.

Another woman is upset because nobody likes her–which she brought on herself–so she hides in the corner of a room behind luggage and sniffles. The producers shine the bachelor light and shove Ben into the scene to save the day. Oh, how I wish he would have (gently) slapped her on the butt and told her to snap out of it. But, no-o-oh. Instead he consoles her, reinforcing the hero image.

Yes, it’s TV. I understand. Many of my mating targets watch it, so I have to fucking deal with it. Piss me off. It’s hard enough to get past their cat allergies. I don’t want my women playing victim to see me don the cape. Ben’s converting me into a prick, vicariously. Perhaps, chick lit would cure me.

Many things don’t go together well. If you’ve just brushed your teeth and you’re craving orange juice, don’t do it or you’re about to prove my point. So, why must we force together things that are best left apart? Toddlers learn quickly that square pegs don’t fit in round holes, but adults keep forcing it instead of finding a fit.

Take the case of the good girl and the bad boy. They don’t fit except for the twenty minutes or so it takes them to pound pelvises. They say a man wants his woman to be a princess in the street and a ‘ho in the bedroom. Well, it seems a woman wants her man to be a personal assistant in the street and a lizard-tongued, tatted-up scruffball with a huge, numb penis in the bedroom.

Do I sound bitter?

If I hear one more woman tell me how nice I am, I’m shaving my head and buying a Harley. Her statement is a death knell. I realize the woman complimenting me has slotted me securely in the friend-I’ll-never-fuck column and that sucks for me. Meanwhile, she’ll answer dickhead’s text (with silly abbreviations, misspellings, and grammatical errors), she’ll rendezvous with his drunk ass, and believe him when he promises to pull out. Tomorrow, her friend (moi), will get the call begging me to join her for breakfast because she’s having a meltdown along with her eggs and morning after pill.

“What’s shakin’, sugarbacon?”

“I slept with Tony again last night.”

“What? I thought you said you were over him.”

“I am now. I’ll never do it again.”

“You said that too.”

“But, this time I mean it.”

“Heard that before as well.”

“He has this uncanny ability to sense when I’m vulnerable and that’s when he strikes. I can’t fight it.”

“Is his manhood so marvelous?”

“Well … it’s not just that.”

“Do tell.”

“He’s different. He takes control and ravages me. I can tell he’s really into it when we’re together and, sure, he’s a skilled lover. He’s emotional and savage.”

“But, once the sex towel comes out I bet he loses his charm.”

“He has no charm. You have charm.”

“… and, unfortunately, no nookiepuss to go with my manners.”

“Aw, you’ll find a nice girl.”

“No, I won’t. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you nice girls want bad boys. I’ll hold your door, pull out your chair, order a fine bottle of wine, and eventually find text messages you’re sending him about wanting to have sex with him for the last time again.”

“I would never …”

“You just did!”

“But, it’s different. I don’t have a serious boyfriend.”

“I bet if I ask the guy you’re dating, he’ll disagree.”

“I know. Damn it! It was foolish. You’re right. [Insert friend hug.] See? This is why I love you so much. You’re such a good friend who listens and knows how to talk sense into me. What would I do without you?”